


marceline, don't leave me out to dry

by librarby



Category: Hustle Cat (Visual Novel)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Trans Character, Trans Graves, Trans Graves (Hustle Cat), trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29687331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: “Graves, huh?” Nacht says, taking his drink back from the bartender. “Hm. Suits ya, I think.”[title from marceline the vampire by steppes]
Relationships: Graves/Nacht
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	marceline, don't leave me out to dry

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the gaymer house server; insert this_man_is_trans dot gif.

As the last note fades out, Graves sucks in a deep breath of musty basement air. 

A few of the bar attendees clap, but most pay him no mind. He makes the mistake of making eye contact with the bartender, who looks utterly relieved to see their set is finished. He glances down, half to escape that look and to check the status of their tip jar. 

It sits at the foot of the stage, lit unintentionally by a well placed light. It’s not terribly full, but it should buy them a celebratory pizza on the way home. He moves the microphone stand and bends down to retrieve it. 

Behind him, Nacht calls out his name. He freezes. 

(Sometimes he forgets his name. Not _Graves_ , no, that name rolls off his tongue easily, though it only ever finds itself being spoken into the pitch black of his bedroom. He forgets his other name, the one everyone knows him as. The apparition that floats in front of him at all times that he continually fails to dissipate.)

Nacht repeats the offending name, but louder this time. Graves takes another breath, this one shakier, but at last spares a glance over his shoulder. “Yes?” 

He finds himself on the receiving end of one of Nacht’s pointy grins. “Drinks on me?” 

Graves feels the ache in his chest, where his binder has been constricting his torso for much too long, through way too much activity. His ankles are pinched into a pair of boots that haven’t quite broken in yet. Despite not having seen himself since the haphazard application of his makeup in the bar bathroom, he knows that his eyeliner has run and his hair is matted against his forehead with sweat. All he wants is to take a shower and collapse face-first into the first bed-adjacent thing he sees. 

Against his better judgment, though, he nods. “Give me five.”

His bandmate lets out a whoop that has several patrons glaring at them. Graves tries to give them an apologetic look, but it’s overshadowed by Nacht immediately knocking down the microphone stand in an attempt to get the tip jar. 

Graves doesn’t help him pick it up, just hops off the stage and heads for the bar. Call it payback, perhaps. 

(For what? Nothing, really. Everything, maybe.)

How exactly Nacht can manage to be an absolute brute about something as simple as sitting down is beyond him. He slides onto the open barstool, and only then does Graves realize that the wall is to his right and he's boxed in. His heart thuds a little harder against his chest. He's not scared of Nacht by any stretch, but fear and panic often look the same.

The bartender seems less than enthused to have them both there, but takes their orders anyway—a whiskey for Nacht and some cheap cocktail for Graves. 

“Drummer didn’t wanna join us.” Nacht says, drumming his fingers on the bar. From here, Graves can see the damage done by his guitar: dried flecks of blood underneath his fingernails and mottled blue bruises running up his arms. “An’ Casey had to head out early to see that girl o’ his.” 

(The bruises are no doubt something else, but Graves chooses to file it into the guitar category so he doesn’t have to think about it too much.)

“Hm. Just the two of us, then?” Graves says, and it’s less of a question and more of a statement. 

Nacht just grunts in agreement. The bartender places their drinks in front of them. He’s gone to the other side of the bar before Graves even realizes they’re switched. Nacht looks wildly unimpressed at the colorful concoction sitting before him. 

Graves silently switches the glasses. 

They drink in relative silence, save for Nacht occasionally kicking his steel-toed boots against the wooden panels of the bar. The bartender glares hard but it doesn’t seem to deter him. 

“Nacht.” He says carefully. Suddenly, it’s as though he can hear his heart pounding inside his ears. The rest of the club seems to fade into white noise behind them as his focus zeroes in on his bandmate. 

If Nacht notices the change in his demeanor, he makes no indication, just gives the bar one last _thud_ before turning his attention to Graves. 

(Who is he kidding, Nacht doesn’t notice anything that isn’t a hot girl or a sale on cigarettes.)

“What?” comes the dull response. He sounds uninterested, and Graves dismisses the slight lean he puts on the counter as a simple readjustment. 

(It’s on the walk home from a Xpidercoven gig that Graves chooses his name. 

He knows he’s been putting it off, shoving it to the side like a biology assignment he has yet to complete. But this wasn’t a trivial matter, it was something he wanted to be certain of. Still, he’d ruminated enough and, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he’d practically made the decision months prior. 

_Graves._

A streetlight near him flickers. He wonders if he could bend the metal into the shape of his heart.

 _My name is Graves_.

He’d been expecting some flood of emotion upon this revelation, or perhaps some sense of finality or contentment. Instead, he feels an overwhelming sense of calm wash over him; as though he's sunk into a pile of pillows with a cat nestled in his lap, like some huge weight has been removed from around his neck and he can finally breathe. 

He pushes a strand of hair out of his face, shoves his hands into his coat pockets, and bites his lip to keep from smiling.)

(When he looks at Nacht, he doesn’t feel calm. God knows what that feeling is.)

(God knows what Nacht feels when he looks at Graves.)

“Nacht.” Graves says again, dropping his eyes down to his hands, picking at the already-chipped black nail polish on his fingers. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something, and I suppose now is as good a time as any to do so.” 

His bandmate hands his glass off to the bartender, muttering something about a tab, then knocks his palm against the surface of the bar. Graves’ cocktail sloshes around inside it’s glass for a moment before settling. “Ya know you can tell me anythin’.” He says, in a surprising act of altruism (a trait very rarely associated with Nacht). 

Whether that's actually true or not, the jury is still out. A nice sentiment, nonetheless. It does little to calm the tiny tremor in his fingers. 

“My name is Graves.” He has to practically push the words past his teeth. Once they’re out, they hang in the air between the two of them like cigar smoke, thick and choking. He rushes to filter it out with more syllables. “I’d prefer to be referred to as a man from now on. And similarly, to have you use ‘he’ and ‘him’ for me.” 

“Graves, huh?” Nacht says, taking his drink back from the bartender. “Hm. Suits ya, I think.” 

Graves lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Thank you. I quite like it.” 

This earns him a crooked smile. “Next round’s on me, yeah?” 

(He knows Nacht doesn’t really _get_ it, and for that he is honestly grateful. In Nacht’s mind, he had that name one day and Graves the next, simple as that. No need for any more explanation other than _I’m this now, I’m him, this shirt no longer fits so I’ll pull on the next one_. 

That’s how Nacht has always operated, after all, scraping parts of himself off like flakes of paint. If it wasn’t fun anymore, what’s the sense in keeping it around? 

Sometimes Graves is jealous of the way he shed his skin so easily, like a snake molting out of last winter’s scales.) 

“I happen to recall you saying you were buying tonight. Full stop.” 

Nacht laughs, a little too loud and a little too close. It makes something in Graves’ chest twist in an odd way. “Now you’re makin’ stuff up, man.” 

“I am doing no such thing.” Graves protests, but he’s smiling too. “You told me, and I quote, ‘drinks on me tonight’.” 

“Hey!” Nacht hits his hand against the bar in such a way that makes Graves worry they’ll get kicked out before he can even finish his second drink. The bartender looks like he wants to launch himself across the counter, but comes over anyway. “A glass of your best whiskey for my friend here.” He punctuates the sentence by slapping Graves on the back a bit too hard, but when Nacht glances over at him, eyes shining, he can only give a grateful smile. 

The thudding of heart against ribcage doesn’t cease until he’s out of the club and parting ways with Nacht. 

Ugh, he _has_ to get this binder off. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ jonbinary!
> 
> comments and kudos bring me so much joy <3


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